THE ROYAL PRINCE, WHO BEHAVES LIKE A DRUNKEN BRICKLAYER
I face the music, but my husband runs away—Prince George can't look me in the eye—He roars and bellows—Advocates wife-beating—I defy him—German classics—"Jew literature" Auto da fé ordered.
Dresden, April 2, 1894.
Chamberlain Baron Haugk, of the service of Prince George, called at nine A.M. and insisted upon seeing me. I sent out my Grand-Mistress, Baroness von Tisch, to tell him that "Her Imperial Highness would graciously permit him to wait upon her at half past ten."
"But my all-highest master commands."
I was listening in my boudoir and I went out to him only half-dressed, a powder-mantle over my shoulders.
"Her Imperial Highness will not have her commands questioned by servants," I said in my most haughty style. The Kammerherr knocked his heels together, bowed to the ground and retired. That's my way of dealing with royal flunkeys, no matter what their title of courtesy.
He was back at the stroke of the clock to announce his "sublime master" for one in the afternoon.
"I will be ready to receive his Royal Highness. My household shall be instructed," I answered coldly, though I dread that old man.
"You are not wanted," I told Frederick Augustus. "Better make yourself scarce." He didn't need to be told twice. "Undress-uniform," he shouted to his valet. "And send somebody for a cab."
"Why a cab?" I inquired.
He looked at me in a pitying way. "Women are such geese," he made answer. "Don't you see, if I left the palace in one of our own carriages, the King, or father, might notice and call me back."
"Oh, very well. And don't 'celebrate' too much while you are out."
I had the lackeys line the staircase and corridors. My military household stood in the first ante-chamber, my courtiers in the second, my ladies in the third when Prince George walked into my parlor. At first he acted in no unfriendly manner. He kissed me on the forehead and asked after the babies, and if he hadn't riveted his eyes all the time into some corner of the room—his stratagem when in an ugly mood—I might have persuaded myself that he wasn't on mischief bent.
But he soon began pouring out his bile. With a face like a wooden martyr he announced that he was not pleased with me.
"You are too much of a light-weight, too vivacious, too attractive to the mob," he said in his bitterest tones. "You are forever seeking the public eye like—an actress."
"I beg your Royal Highness to take notice that Imperial Princesses of Austria"—I put some emphasis on the Imperial—"while popular, never descend to jugglery," I answered politely, but firmly.
"No offence to your Imperial Highness," said George, "but you must understand once and for all that Saxon princes and princesses are bound by our house laws to the strictest observance of precedence. The love of the people naturally goes out to the King and Queen. Junior members of the Royal House must not seek to divert to themselves the popularity that is the King's own."
"I have always been taught to respond to popular greetings offered me. My aunt, the Empress Elizabeth, in particular instructed me to that effect," I submitted with great deference.
"Her Majesty didn't instruct you to make a show of yourself every hour of the day," hissed George, his eyes devouring the stove.
"I drive out twice, in the morning to go shopping, in the afternoon to air my babies."
George, unable to dispute me, abandoned pretensions of politeness or manners. He fairly roared at me: "You are travelling the streets all the time. It has to stop."
Whereupon I said in as sharp a voice as I could manage: "And Your Royal Highness has to stop bellowing at me. I'm not used to it. In Salzburg and Vienna gentlemen don't use that tone of voice and that sort of language to gentlewomen."
"Salzburg," cried George, "in Salzburg you got your ears boxed, but it didn't do much good to all appearances."
"Your Royal Highness," I answered, "my mother has her faults, but it's no one's business outside of her immediate family. And no one at this court has a mother's authority over me."
I saw that George was beside himself with rage. "If your husband," he snarled, "was as free with his hand as your mother, there would be an end to your frivolities."
"Your Royal Highness forgets what you admitted yourself, namely, that the indignities offered me while I was a child were bereft of beneficial results. And please take notice," I added, raising my voice, "I won't stand violence from anyone, neither from my husband—as you kindly suggest—nor from you, or the King."
George was too surprised to even attempt a reply. He evidently didn't know what to say or do. To avoid my eyes that were seeking his, he turned his back on me and stepped up to a little table laden with books. He studied the titles for a while, then, turning suddenly, held a small volume towards me. His arm was out-stretched as if he feared to contaminate his uniform.
"What have we got here?" he cried.
It was my turn to be astonished. "Why, according to the binding, it must be Heine's Atta Troll."
"Atta Troll," cried George, and opening the book at random he read half to himself:
"This bear-leader six Madonnas
Wears upon his pointed hat,
To protect his head from bullets
Or from lice, perchance, it may be."
He fired the volume on the floor and grabbed another. "What's this?"
"As the title will indicate to your Royal Highness, Nietzsche's Zarathustra." For the life of me I couldn't see any harm in this portion of my library.
George continued to rummage among the books. He acted like a madman. "What's this, what's this?" he kept on saying, turning them over and over. I thought it beneath my dignity to answer. I just stared at the fanatic.
After he finished his hurried examination, he took one book after the other and tossed it violently at my feet.
"Heine, the Jew-scribbler," he cried, aiming a kick at Atta Troll.
"Don't you dare," I said, "that book was given me by Her Majesty, the Empress of Austria."
"I can't believe it," shouted George, "that Jew-scribbler, the reviler of kinship."
"He never lampooned the kings of Saxony," I calmly remarked, picking up the volume. "Here is Her Majesty's dedication to me."
"Everybody knows the eccentricities of Her Majesty of Austria," shouted George. "Anyhow, who gave you permission to read such rotten stuff as this at our court?"
"Prince George," I answered, taking two steps towards him, "Duke of Saxony, the Archduchess of Austria takes pleasure to inform you that in her house she asks no one's permission what to read or do."
At this he turned drill-ground bully. "You are in the King's house," rang out his voice in cutting tones, "and at this moment I represent the King. And in the King's name I forbid you to read these obscenities, and in the King's name I hereby command that these books be destroyed at once."
Well, since he talked in the King's name I had no leg to stand on. I merely bowed acquiescence and he strutted out, turning his back on me as he went without salutation of any sort. I ran into my room, locked the door and had a good cry.